That's the Spirit
by slvrhvk
Summary: Charles Xavier and Moira MacTaggert are the costars of a popular ghost investigation show, who enthusiastically agree to do an episode about an old haunted mansion in Westchester, New York. Cherik, modern AU
1. Chapter 1

**I really should be working on my Detectives AU but I thought of this and couldn't stop myself.**

Cheesy posters and maps covered in red push pins littered the walls of a small, untidy van with no windows. Two mattresses with sleeping bags and pillows hid the floor, squashed haphazardly by a pull out table, which held several different laptops and electronic devices. A cabinet had been screwed on the back door, holding the scant amount of food that was actually kept in the van, as well as a few utensils.

In the middle of the mess sat Charles Xavier, a small man with wavy dark hair and pale skin, with soft eyes that shimmered like opals in the sunlight. At least... that's how some people describe him. At the moment, his hair was a mess, kept away from his sunburnt face by a red bandana, his eyes bloodshot with sleep deprivation.

Charles was kneeling in front of one of the laptops, headphones stuck in his ears, listening to the same recording over and over again. A pencil was clutched tightly in his hand as he took in the audio, and he gritted his teeth, moving to write something down in a note book that sat at his side. As he scribbled down what he'd observed, he heard the passenger's side door open.

Looking up, Charles saw a woman in a green shirt with a grey sweater pulled over her shoulders. Her auburn hair had been wrapped up in a ponytail, and she carried a brown paper bag from McDonald's, as well as two styrofoam mugs of coffee. "Hey," she greeted, climbing into the back of their van. Charles pulled out his headphones and took the coffee from the woman gratefully.

"Good morning, Moira," he responded, taking a long drink of the scalding coffee and closing his eyes for a moment. "I take it your morning was eventful."

The woman rolled backwards and pulled up her blue jeans awkwardly, before returning to a sitting position and grinning at the tired man. "It was, actually. I got us an approval by the city to go and look into the old mansion up in rural Westchester," she told him excitedly. Charles raised his eyebrows, taking another drink of coffee.

"Did you really? I'm impressed, Moira. Did you call Sean and Hank? I'm sure they'll be exhilarated to have a new episode to film," Charles stated, opening up the paper McDonald's bag and pulling out a breakfast sandwich to eat. He took a bite, groaning almost orgasmically (which certainly earned an annoyed eye roll from Moira), before pointing toward the computer he'd been listening to for the past two hours. "You heard the recording from the Maximoff house, right?"

Moira gave him a look of distaste, taking a bite out of her own breakfast sandwich. "Yeah, that place was creepy as hell. And I'm supposedly _used_ to that kind of crap!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. Charles shrugged, chewing his sandwich. "Why, is something up with it?"

"No, I was just intrigued by what the boy said about their deaths," he said scratching his head under his bandana. "You heard it, the whole 'it was hungry' blah blah blah, I mean did that sound like his mother killed them?" Moira gave him a look once again, and Charles sipped his coffee. "I just think it was a bit suspicious, that's all. Young boys don't typically refer to their mother as 'it', now do they?"_  
><em>

Moira rolled her eyes, sipping her coffee and waving her hand around. "First of all, Magda Maximoff was a psychopath who thought her daughter was a witch. Second, I wouldn't take the word of a twelve year old boy _who is dead_ to hold against a decades year old murder case. Third, we are _not_ going back in that house just because you want to talk to the kid again," she stated with a set look on her face. Charles shook his head.

"I don't _want_ to go back in the house, Moira. I was just going to say that we should cut that part out of the episode. It's too unnerving for the audiences," he casually told her, leaning back on his hands. Moira tilted her head, giving him a sarcastic look. "What's that about?" he asked with a chuckle.

"You think some kid ghost talking about their deaths is unnerving but the photos Sean collected of the _actual_ murder scene _isn't_? Charles I don't wanna know what it's like in that funny brain of yours," she laughed, taking a long chug of coffee. Charles shrugged awkwardly, taking another bite of his breakfast sandwich. "Besides, that would cut the air time to fifty eight minutes, we need to keep it in for a full hour."

"Alright fine, we'll keep it in," Charles consented in an annoyed voice, downing the remainder of his coffee and tossing the now empty styrofoam cup in the trash bag hanging off the door. "But when we get calls from people who are too scared to sleep, it's gonna be _your fault,_" he finished, pointing his finger in Moira's face. She raised a hand and pushed his finger down to the floor, an eyebrow raised.

"Charles we've shown freakier stuff on this show. I don't think this is going to scare the living daylights out of anyone, okay?" Moira said calmly, a small smile tweaking at the edge of her lips. Charles sighed, nodding.

"I suppose you're right. Besides, it isn't as if we can go back to the house. We have another case to work on now," he grinned, his mood improving as he recalled the news about the Westchester mansion. Moira bit her lip, smiling shrewdly, and she clambered to the front of the car to call their producer.

"Raven?" she asked after several rings. "Well can you put me on with her?" There was a pause. "Hey Raven! Yeah, I know. Listen, me and Charles just got approved for the Westchester mansion, and we were wondering if Sean and Hank would be able to come out with the equipment so we could film another one. Sweet, tell them to read up on the plane."

Moira turned back toward Charles, sliding into the driver's seat. "You ready for another round, brain boy?" she inquired deviously. The ghost hunter grinned as Moira started the engine of the van.

"You bet I am."

**Okay, okay. It was a pretty boring first chapter, right? I might not actually finish this, but drop a review anyway!**


	2. Chapter 2

Charles groaned as he re-watched the footage that had aired on television the night before. He wasn't going to lie; he had been a bit tipsy when he went into the house that night, but he didn't think he'd acted so... _utterly ridiculous._

"_Are there any ghosts? No? Ghosts it's about bloody time you talk to me, I've been here what? An hour?_" there was the sound of a creaking door. Charles in the video whipped around, directing his hand held camera in every different direction. "_Wha's that?_" he asked in a horrified voice. A bat suddenly flew from one of the cabinets in the room, and video-Charles screamed, dropping to the floor and curling into the fetal position.

"Are we really using this?" he complained to Moira, who laughed aloud from the driver's seat of their van. Charles took her response to mean that they were, and he fell backwards against the headrest of his seat. "I'm _ruined!_"

Moira punched him lightly on the shoulder, and he sneered at her, rubbing the limb. "Relax, man. You were hilarious. Raven said viewer rates went _way_ up. She was actually wondering if I could convince you to do it again!"

"There is _no way_ I'm doing that again. You won't be able to convince me," he said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. Moira shrugged with a dumb grin on her face.

"I just can't stop laughing at the 'I pissed myself' part."

Charles sunk lower in his seat, groaning. _That was on actual, real television._

* * *

><p>Erik banged his head against the wall for what had to be the fiftieth time that hour. There was singing in the background, as well as the sound of a chandelier being swung around, but he wanted no part in the others' shenanigans. He groaned as there was a crashing sound, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.<p>

"Ah, man! Put it back up, Emma, we can use that on the next tourists!" Angel said in a devious tone. Erik stood up, brushing off his brown slacks and turning to face the two who were in the room with him. "Yo, magnet boy! Check this out!"

Erik grimaced at the nickname, not saying anything in response, but leaned against the peeling wall with his arms crossed, nodding at Angel to show him whatever she thought was so impressive. The young woman grinned at him from her place atop the main staircase banister, pulling up her black collared shirt and shaking her head to prepare herself.

Angel disappeared from sight all of a sudden, leaving a small puff of black smoke behind her, and then the massive chandelier above the hall began to swing back and forth, the light that had been dead for ages flickering on and off, before the entire thing crashed to the ground. Erik blinked as the glass shattered, and in the split second that his eyes were closed, the chandelier had returned to it's dull hanging place on the high ceiling.

The young woman reappeared in front of him, smiling dorkishly, and Erik tousled her hair. "That was very nice, Angel. You're a clever young woman. Have you seen Janos anywhere?" Angel shrugged, gesturing behind her toward the smaller, offset kitchen stairwell.

"Basement, probably. You know how much he likes the cat," she suggested, and Erik nodded at her, reaching down to his waist and pulling his brown suspenders back over his shoulders as he walked toward the door leading to the basement.

The stairs creaked under his feet as he walked down the slim stairwell, sliding his hands against the cracked walls as he walked, negating the use of a banister. Erik stepped into the dank basement, putting the back of his hand to his nose as the smell of mold and rot hit him. "Janos?" he called into the dark room, illuminated by a single window above some shelves.

The jingling of a bell indicated Janos' acknowledgement of the call, and Erik made his way toward the source of the noise. The Latino man was crouched in the corner of the gardening room of the basement, petting a small kitten that was the color of a cheeto. Erik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and Janos smiled up at him.

The man's smile was still a bit unsettling, seeing as his mouth was sewn shut, X's of black thread pushed through his lips three times across and doubled over for strength. But Erik ignored that, having known Janos for quite some time, and went on to ask his question. "Have you been able to get in contact with your medium friend?"

Janos shook his head, his broad shoulders slumping in his baby blue colored suit. Erik cursed silently, clenching his fist ever so slightly. "If and when you do, you know what I wanted, correct?" he demanded, and Janos nodded with a closed-eye smile, giving Erik a thumbs up with the hand that wasn't petting the cat.

"Thank you, Janos. Your efforts will be repaid," he nodded, turning on the heel of his pointed shoe and walking out of the basement.

As he surfaced back on the main floor, he heard noises from the other room. Erik steered himself down the hall, and found everyone crowded around a small television that sat on a table in the old, worn out living room. Angel was at the bottom of the pile, with Emma seated on her knees beside her, Azazel crouching on the opposite side, Alex and Darwin peering over the other three to try and get a good look.

Erik rolled his eyes as he saw what they were watching on the one piece of working technology in the house. "You're _really_ watching that ghost hunter show?" he inquired with a hint of distaste in his voice. All the watchers turned and shushed him immediately, going back to intently staring at the black and white screen.

"_Holy fuck!_" screamed the man on the television, throwing an expensive looking camera. The group laughed, and Erik sighed, crossing his arms and flopping down on the ratty couch behind him, not quite able to see the entire television screen. "_Oh, man. Oh MAN we'll have to fix that later. Shit,_" there was silence on the screen, "_what was that?_"

A blur of something zoomed past the man on the screen, and he screamed, dropping to the floor with his hand on his chest. "_Oh my god,_" he breathed in a high pitched voice, causing Angel to snort and Emma to laugh, "_Oh my god, holy shit,_" he flattened his hand against the floor, his other hand clutching his chest. "_Holy shit I just pissed myself,_" everyone laughed out loud, "_I just pissed myself oh my god, what was that?_"

The logo for the show, 'That's the Spirit' flashed up on the screen; two young people standing back to back, the woman holding a camera and the man holding a laptop, and a female voice spoke from the speaker, "_That's the spirit will be right back after this break._"

"Honestly what do you see in that show, other than the physically appealing host?" Erik inquired with a raised eyebrow. Angel rolled onto her back, shrugging.

"It's _funny._ Plus did you hear they're doing an episode filmed in 'the old Westchester mansion'?" she asked, and Erik stiffened.

"They're coming _here_?" he demanded, and Emma nodded casually, picking at her nails. "_Why?_"

Azazel stood too his full height, stretching his arms out. "Because it is a creepy place, Erik. You yourself cannot deny this," he shrugged, and Erik sat back on the couch, nodding to himself.

"But will that put us in any danger?" he inquired, and Angel laughed aloud.

"Dude, you saw that guy. You think he's gonna be any _danger_ to us?" Darwin asked with a humorous look on his handsome face. Erik chuckled to himself in agreement.

"I suppose you're right," he decided, "Besides, they won't be here long. What's a few days going to hurt?"


	3. Chapter 3

Charles stared at the front of the mansion with an agape mouth. It looked like a _palace_ that had, at some point, been used as some sort of _school_. He looked down at the note pad where he'd scribbled down the address, and then looked at the number on the old wooden plaque near the gate. This was, indeed, the right place.

Moira stopped beside him, slinging her bright purple duffel bag over her shoulder and holding her camera under her arm. "What?" she asked, an eyebrow raised. Charles held out a hand to the mansion, his face still shocked.

"It's bloody enormous!" he exclaimed, and Moira laughed, punching him on the shoulder. "Hey, what was that for? And why do you have your bag, Moira? It isn't as if we're staying the night here. You'll need to bring that back to the van so we can find a motel or something."

The woman cackled out loud, slapping her knee sarcastically. "Charles, we are _not_ spending _money_ on a motel when we have this perfectly good mansion to sleep in! It's got _plenty_ of rooms and beds for everyone. They say it hasn't been touched since the last owner was murdered."

Charles gaped at her in slight shock and slight anger. "You can't be serious! It's a bloody haunted house! We'll probably _die_ before we even get an _hour_ of sleep!"

"You can bunk up with Hank if you want, I'm sure he won't mind sharing a bed," Moira shrugged, starting to walk toward the mansion, her camera swinging in her hand. Charles dashed after her, across the gravel path.

"Moira, you insane woman. Did you not _hear_ yourself the first time!? The previous owner was _murdered!_" he shouted, and Moira waved him off, continuing to walk toward the enormous mansion. Charles grabbed the sides of his head in frustration, running to keep up with his partner. "Besides, you did the research just as much as I did! The house was abandoned in _nineteen seventy three._ Does this property _look_ like it was abandoned in 1973!? No, it doesn't, which means the ghosts are active and they care about the house. Which means they will _not_ be happy if some galavanting TV hosts come barging in and try to stay the night!"

Moira turned so she was walking backwards, one eyebrow cocked. "We'd both be spending a night in here anyway. Besides, it'll be great footage for the show if we keep the cameras on us while we're sleeping. If something creepy happens in our room and we're not awake the audience will _love_ it," she grinned, and Charles stopped in his tracks.

"You are _mad_," he stated, and the woman shrugged, turning on her heel and continuing on her path to the entrance of the house. _  
><em>

"Hey Hank! You've been filming us walking up, right?" she called to a tall lanky man who was not too far behind them. Charles turned his head slightly, and saw that their film director had been following them with a camera rolling the entire time. Hank gave Moira a thumbs up, and she grinned. "Awesome, can you get Sean and tell him we want to do the introduction shot?"

Hank nodded, setting the camera on the ground and dashing off toward their van. Parked beside it was a gray rental Saturn, which contained a young red haired man and a boom mike, as well as several portable security cameras in bags. Charles turned back to Moira, who was inspecting the mahogany door now, looking impressed. "Have you memorized your lines?" he asked, trying to avoid talking about staying the night again.

"Duh, of course I have. Who was the theatre major? Me. Who was the genetics major? You," she chuckled, pulling out a hand held mirror and a makeup brush. "Do you need eyebrows done?" Charles shook his head.

"No, I did all my makeup on the drive here," he told her, and Moira neglected to respond. She was too busy fixing her eyebrows. Sean and Hank approached from behind him, and the distinct scent of marijuana hit Charles' nose. "Sean, put that out. It's not becoming," he sighed to their sounds operator.

Sean chuckled, tossing the blunt to the ground and stepping on it lightly. "You really need to like, lighten up, man. Seriously," he said as he hoisted the boom mike over his head. "Okay, you two get your stuff ready, I'm set to roll."

Hank handed Charles his suitcase with a slight smile, stepping back and heaving his camera onto his shoulder. "Okay, you two get set," he told them, prepping the camera to roll. Moira shoved her makeup back in her bag, and tossed her hair out of her eyes. "Charles, in place," he added, and the man groaned, pulling the handle of his suitcase and standing next to Moira as casually as he could. "Okay, rolling in three, two," Hank held up one finger and then pointed to them.

"We're here at the entrance of the Trask mansion, which is said to be one of the most haunted buildings in America," Moira recited, a daring smile planted on her face.

Charles tilted his head toward the camera, grinning, "Over the next few days Moira and I will be studying and recording the supernatural occurrences in the mansion, hoping to unlock the secre-"

"Hello," a voice said from behind them. Moira and Charles both screamed, and Hank nearly dropped the camera in an attempt to turn it off. The television stars whirled around in terror, coming face to face with a young woman in a maid's uniform. She had dark skin and black hair, and wore red lipstick. _She's hot..._ Charles observed.

"Uh, hi. Who are you?" Moira asked in a high pitched voice once the shock had worn off. The woman in the maid's uniform put a hand on her hip, leaning against the doorway.

"I'm Angel. I take care of the place," she told them, biting her lip. "You must be those ghost hunters," Angel continued, taking a step toward Charles. He nodded awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to slow down the rapid beating of his heart._  
><em>

"Yes, yes we are. And that was terrifying. Do you always sneak up on people like that?" he inquired, his voice cracking. Angel smirked, stepping away from Charles and back toward the door.

"Only when it's convenient for me," she stated, turning to Moira. "I won't be any bother. Continue your... _show_," Angel winked at Charles, who blushed a shade similar to the woman's lipstick. Moira rolled her eyes as the 'housekeeper' swaggered back inside the house, and closed the door behind her.

"I don't know how she got that door open without us hearing it, but we'll have to ask her to stay out of our way," Moira grumbled, "And we should do an interview with her too, get the scoop on the day to day house." Charles was still staring at the door where Angel had disappeared. "What, Charles? Don't tell me her little ho show got you tongue tied."

Charles shook his head, not taking his eyes off the door. "No, I just don't remember the county saying anything about a housekeeper," he told her, and Moira shrugged, waving him off.

"Doesn't matter. Let's do that shot again," she said, turning back toward Hank, who looked amused by their interaction with Angel. Sean looked like he was ready to have sex with her right then and there. "You guys ready?" Moira asked the two, who both nodded, prepping their gear once again.

"Okay," Hank repeated, "Rolling in three, two-" he pointed, and Moira began speaking. Charles recited his lines with practiced ease, and when the cameras cut, he stared up at the massive house once more.

_It's amazing..._ he gawked in his head as Moira and the two others carried their bags and equipment into the house. _Simply gorgeous... _However, as he was staring up at the beauty of the mansion, his heart dropped into his stomach. There, in one of the high windows, stood the housekeeper Angel, along with another man.

And they both had bloody bullet wounds through their foreheads.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter is trash :/ sorry to keep you guys waiting and then only update with this. I'll try to get a better one out next time**

* * *

><p>"Have you seen any sign of that housekeeper?" Charles asked Moira as he hefted his bag up the posh steps of the mansion. They were carpeted with red, and probably looked incredibly lavish at the time they were installed, but now they were covered in muddy shoe prints and other various stains. "What was her name, Annie?"<p>

"Angel, Charles. It was Angel. And no, I haven't seen her. Maybe she left for the day?" Moira suggested, inspecting a painting on one of the landings. It was a short man who reminded Charles of a Game of Thrones character, who had a large mustache and enormous glasses. "This place is a lot bigger than I thought it was gonna be, right? It didn't look so massive in the brochures."

Charles nodded in agreement, lugging his suitcase one step at a time up to the floor where Moira said there were bedrooms. With a mighty grunt, he managed to get the rolling bag to the top step, and he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I think we should find a motel, Moira. This place is giving me the chills."

The woman slung her duffel over her shoulder after she finished looking at the painting, and dashed up the steps quickly. Her smirk made Charles want to punch her directly in the face. "C'mon, it'll be fun! You love a good haunted house, right? Besides, all four of us are gonna be right in the same hallway. We will be one hundred and twenty five percent perfectly fine."_  
><em>

Moira then flipped her hair and sauntered to one of the open doors, peering in and finding a bed and a dresser. "I'll stay in here, you can take the one across the hall from me," she offered to Charles, who groaned but went in nonetheless.

The room he entered was a bit larger than the one Moira had been in, and it seemed like someone had rushed out of it in a hurry. The bookshelf, which sat in one corner of the white-and-red striped room, was filled up on the first three shelves, but had a scant amount on the top two. The books, which probably belonged on those shelves, were strewn around the floor of the room, some opened, some stacked up, several with bookmarks sticking out of them.

A map was in the middle of the floor, with long-dried ink circling certain places on it, which had faded due to the light from the window. A rug was under the map, white and red and faded, and pushed against the far wall was a canopy bed. It was mahogany, with a canvas sheet over the tall posts, and a red quilt tossed atop it like someone had thrown it off of them in a rush to get out. The pillows were sunken and flat, probably from years of having been slept on, and the whole of the room was covered in dust.

Charles walked forward slowly, his footsteps creaking on the old floorboards, and he bit his lip to avoid whimpering in fear. He cautiously opened the blinds of the ancient window, letting more light into the room. He then hesitantly put his bag down, pulling out his computer. "Moira!" he shouted over his shoulder, "Have you set up the wireless router yet!?"

"Just did, yeah!" came her response, and Charles connected to the internet. Immediately, he opened the internet and pulled up Google. Into the search bar, he type _Trask Mansion murders how many_.

There was a shocking amount of results. Most of them were articles written by amateur ghost hunters, and some were blogs about the famous haunted sights around the world. Charles clicked on one of the blogs, hoping to find what he wanted.

There was a link to a list of all the murders at the house, which Charles scrolled his mouse to, clicking on it and waiting for the page to load. The list wasn't as long as he'd expected, but it was certainly longer than the average houses they visited.

_Doctor Bolivard Trask, 1923_

_Unidentified male, 1941_

_Unidentified female, 1954_

_Emilia Frost, 1962_

_Azazel Alianoffnicht, 1962_

__Janos Quested, 1965__

__Alexander Summers, 1999__

__Unidentified male, 2001__

__Charles Xavier, 2014__

__Moira MacTaggert, 2014__

Charles did a double take as he read the last two names on the list, and realized after a moment that he must have read it wrong. The list ended after the unidentified male in 2001, though he could've sworn he saw his and Moira's names at the bottom. Glancing around the eerily silent room in worry, Charles bit his lip.

When he saw no one around him, he went back to the list, pulling up a longer version from the sidebar of the website. A description of each murder appeared under the names, some more detailed than others. Charles decided to start with Bolivard Trask.

_Doctor Bolivard Trask was a well revered scientist in the early 20th century. He spent the majority of his career studying genetics and human deformities. _Blah, blah, Charles scrolled past the bio and directly to the part about his death. _Trask was found dead in 1923. It is suspected that his wife killed him, but she disappeared after that day, never to be seen again._

Charles moved onto the next victim. _This unidentified male was found in 1950 in the attic of Trask Mansion. Police estimated he died around 1941, during the second world war. The man's body was never identified, but there have been speculations that he was a refugee of the Holocaust, as Trask Mansion was used as a safe house in America for quite some time. However, it was never confirmed._

_The unidentified woman found in the bathtub at Trask Mansion in 1954 was supposedly the previous owner's maid. The family, who would prefer to remain unnamed, had moved out the year prior, and could not confirm that the woman was, in fact, their maid. The unidentified woman was found with her throat slit, completely nude. No one was able to identify her._

_Reporter Emma Frost and her partner Azazel Alianoffnicht were found murdered in the front hallway of the Trask Mansion. The two had been there to write an article on old Victorian mansions, only staying for two nights. However, when they did not return after an extra third night, a police officer was sent to make sure they were alright. He found the two hanged from the third story, with their wrists slit. Behind them, on the wall, someone had written in their blood, ICE QUEEN, and DEVIL MAN. See picture on right. Their killer was never caught, but the house was closed off to reporters in the years following._

_Janos Quested bought the Trask Mansion when it was put back on the market after a three year break due to the previous murders. Quested owned it for only two weeks before he, too, was killed. He was found in the basement of the mansion with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth sewn shut. Once again, the person responsible was never found by police, and the house was once again closed off from the market._

_In 1999, teen football star Alex Summers was found stabbed to death in the mansion. His friends claim he was sent in on a dare, and they had thought the house was empty when they told him to go in. Police never found Summers' killer, case was never closed. _

_Three years after Summers' death, the unidentified body of an African American teenager was found under the back patio with his head smashed in. No one has come forward to identify him, but it was after his death that the public began referring to the Trask Mansion as 'the Murder Mansion'. Whether or not this was influenced by the horrific deaths or by popular television show American Horror Story remains to be debated, but the name fits either way._

Charles could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he suspiciously glanced around once more, knowing Moira would want him to help set up for the opening shots. He stood up cautiously, setting his computer down and closing it as quietly as possible. He was turning to leave the room when he heard a scream.

* * *

><p>"FUCK!" Hank screamed as he fell off the ladder he had been standing on. With some great stroke of luck, the camera he had been attaching to the wall did not, in fact, fall with him, instead staying suspiciously secure. Moira and Charles both rounded the corner at almost the exact same time, nearly ramming into each other, to see their camera man on the ground.<p>

"Bloody hell, Hank, are you alright?" Charles asked as he slid to his knees to assist his friend in standing up. Hank rubbed his rear, where he had fallen, and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. The camera didn't fall, right?" The man tossed his blue-dyed hair out of his eyes and stood, looking at the balanced piece of equipment with curiosity. "That was really close." Charles nodded in agreement and raised an eyebrow.

"Stroke of luck, my friend," he agreed, and Hank set the ladder upright once more, climbing up to continue his work. "Are we filming tonight?"

Moira popped a piece of bubble gum and leaned against the wall. "Nah, we're just gonna sleep tonight. We have a meeting with a historian that studies the house in the morning, we'll start our solos tomorrow," she said, and Charles nodded, scratching his chin. "C'mon, scaredy pants," Moira continued, slapping Charles on the arm as she headed back toward her bedroom, "Lets get our cameras set up, we want them all ready by the time we go to sleep."

Charles blew some of his hair out of his eyes and turned to follow Moira, swinging around the corner and back into his room. However, from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw someone standing at the end of the hallway. "Sean?" he called, leaning back out of the doorway. When he saw no one there, he shrugged as casually as he could muster, partially to reassure himself that he was safe, and he headed back into his room.

"_Keep it together..._" he thought he heard someone say. But upon turning around with a loud yelp, Charles saw, once again, not a single soul. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he reached into his bag to retrieve the wall camera for his room.

As he pulled it out, groaning under the weight, he saw something flutter to the ground. _What is that..._ he sighed in his head, expecting it to be something ridiculous that Moira planted in his bag. Setting the camera down on his bed, Charles reached out and picked it up off the floor. It appeared to be polaroid photograph, developing in his hands.

As the black cleared, the image of a young boy and a woman could be seen, wearing clothes that could be dated to the early thirties. "Where did this come from?" Charles muttered to himself, before dropping the photo in shock.

In the second that he blinked, the photo had changed. Now the woman was more frail looking, eyes closed, and the boy was a grown man, a yellow star pinned to his jacket; a symbol of the Holocaust.

And he was staring directly into Charles' eyes.


End file.
